Missing Person
by heisey
Summary: Months after the events of Daredevil season three, Dex has recovered from his injuries and escaped from custody, and Matt is missing.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1_

_Dex_

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter crouched behind a reeking dumpster in Hell's Kitchen, waiting. Midnight was hours ago, but he was prepared to wait as long as necessary. The grueling months of rehabilitation and physical therapy had taught him patience. The hours of waiting would be worth it if they brought him the perfect bait to reel in his target: Daredevil.

His patience was rewarded twenty minutes later, when he spotted a young couple approaching. The sidewalk around them was empty. Dex sprinted toward the mouth of the alley, pulling down the bill of his baseball cap and securing a scarf around the lower half of his face. Every cop in the city would be looking for him. He couldn't risk being identified. Wrapped up in each other, the man and woman didn't see or hear him coming. He grabbed the woman and dragged her back into the alley. The man followed, yelling at him to let her go. Dex stopped when he judged they were far enough into the alley to be invisible from the sidewalk. He pulled out a knife and pressed it against the woman's throat. "Scream," he ordered.

"What?" she gasped.

"You heard me. Do it."

The woman began screaming, and her companion continued to yell at Dex to let her go. Now all he had to do was wait. It was only a minute or two before he heard a low voice, coming from above them. "Let her go," the voice ordered. Perfect, Dex thought. Right on cue. He released the woman, who fled, followed by the man.

A figure dressed in all black, with a black mask covering the top half of his face, jumped down from a fire escape and landed lightly a few feet from him. The man in black inclined his head in that odd way of his and said, "Poindexter."

"Daredevil," Dex replied. As he spoke, he reached into his pocket for a length of metal pipe, one of several projectiles he had brought with him. He launched the pipe at Daredevil and charged. Daredevil evaded it with a back flip. The flip brought Daredevil in close to Dex. He landed punches to Dex's jaw and midsection before Dex connected with an uppercut to Daredevil's jaw. The blow pushed Daredevil back a step and allowed Dex to break away. Dex spotted a chunk of concrete on the broken pavement. He picked it up and hurled it at Daredevil, who twisted out of its way but couldn't dodge it completely. The ragged edge of the concrete ripped through the fabric of Daredevil's shirt and opened a gash in his upper arm, near his right shoulder. While Daredevil's back was turned, Dex charged him, but Daredevil lashed out with his right foot, landing a kick on Dex's knee. Dex howled in pain and grabbed his knee, but he didn't go down. As Daredevil turned to face him, Dex took hold of the other man's arms. They grappled as Dex pushed Daredevil back toward the side of one of the buildings bordering the alley. With a final push, Dex slammed Daredevil into the wall, and he slid to the ground. Dex tried to catch his breath while Daredevil struggled to get up. Damn him, Dex thought. That was one of the many things he hated about Daredevil. He wouldn't stay down. Daredevil finally managed to get to his feet. He charged, yelling, and began throwing punches. Dex dodged most of them, then retreated several steps, almost stumbling over a brick on the ground. He picked it up and threw it at Daredevil, who leaned back in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid it. The brick struck Daredevil on the right side of his forehead, and he went down. He stayed down this time. Dex approached him and kicked him in the ribs. There was no reaction.

A voice was shouting at the mouth of the alley. Someone had spotted him. Damn. He pulled out another projectile, a piece of a two by four, and threw it at the sound. Enraged at the interruption, he ran out of the alley, toward the person who had yelled at him. The sidewalk was empty. He turned to go back down the alley and finish off Daredevil, but that was no longer an option. Sirens were approaching. He shrugged. From the look of him, Daredevil was in no condition to interfere with his primary mission: killing Karen Page. Satisfied he'd accomplished his purpose, Dex slipped away into the darkness.

_Foggy_

In the morning, Foggy was awakened by an alert on his phone. He stared at it blearily, muttering, "No, no, no, no, no." That was enough to wake Marci.

"What is it, Foggy Bear?" she asked sleepily.

"It's Poindexter. He's escaped," he replied grimly.

"Oh. My. God," she said. "What're you going to do?"

"Karen," he said. "She's the one he's after. We have to make sure she's safe." He pulled up her number on his phone and tapped it. "C'mon, c'mon, pick up" he muttered, listening to the rings.

Karen answered on the fourth ring. "Hey, Foggy," she said, adding before he could ask, "Yes, I heard."

"He's gonna come after you. We need to get you somewhere safe."

"I know. But is anywhere safe from that psycho?"

Foggy frowned. "I dunno. We'll figure something out. Is Matt with you?"

"Uh, no. I had to go out to Queens last night to interview that witness in the _O'Neill_ case. The only time she would meet me was after her shift ended at 11. Matt's not answering?"

"I don't know. You were my first call. I'll call him now. You should get to the office as soon as you can. I'll meet you there."

"OK," Karen said, and ended the call.

"You sure that's a good idea," Marci asked, "telling her to go to the office?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Foggy admitted. "But every cop in the city has got to be looking for Poindexter. I'm thinking he needs to stay out of sight during the day. And the office is more secure than our apartments. So it's the safest place for now, until we can come up with something better."

"It's the getting-to-the-office part I'm worried about," Marci told him.

Shit, Foggy thought. Marci was right. As usual. Karen wouldn't be safe, going to the office on her own. "You're right. I'll call Brett, see if he can send someone to escort her. Can you call Karen and tell her there's been a change of plans and to stay put?"

Marci nodded. She and Foggy picked up their phones at the same time.

Brett Mahoney answered his phone on the first ring. "15th Squad, Detective Sergeant Mahoney."

"Brett, it's Foggy Nelson."

"Hey, Foggy."

"You know Poindexter's out, right?" Not waiting for an answer, Foggy continued, the words spilling out of him. "And he's gonna go after Karen, you know he is. We have to get her to a safe place."

"Slow down and take a deep breath," Mahoney said firmly. "We've got every cop in the city looking for him. He won't be out there long."

"It won't make any difference if he's out there long enough to find Karen."

Mahoney sighed. "OK. Point taken. What d'you want me to do?"

"Karen's at her apartment. Can you send someone to escort her to our office?"

"Your office? She'd be safer at the precinct."

"Probably," Foggy admitted. "But we need to talk about, uh, things we shouldn't be discussing at the precinct."

"Oh. Right," Brett said. "But I'm not sending someone. I'll go myself."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I'll see you at your office."

Foggy ended the call and told Marci the plan. She told Karen, "It's all set. Brett Mahoney is coming to pick you up and bring you to the office. Just sit tight until then . . . OK, 'bye."

After Marci put down her phone, Foggy looked over at her and thought for a moment. "You need to get dressed while I call Matt. You're coming with me."

"Me?" Marci raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, you," Foggy replied firmly. "Poindexter might try to use you as leverage, to get to Karen. I'm not letting that happen. Go, go." He waved his hand.

Marci groaned but complied. As she rummaged in the closet, Foggy called Matt's cell. No answer. Same for the landline at his apartment. With each ring, the knot in Foggy's stomach grew tighter. Then he tried the burner phone he and Karen insisted that Matt carry when he went out to do his night work as Daredevil. After two rings, a strange voice answered, "Yeah?"

"Who is this? Where's Matt?" Foggy demanded.

"Fuck you," the voice answered, and ended the call.

Foggy's heart pounded. His phone slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. His mind raced. Why would a stranger have Matt's burner phone? Where was he? Oh, God, something had happened to Matt. He couldn't lose his best friend again. It might be for real, this time. He ran through the possibilities – none of them good – with a growing sense of dread.

"He's not answering?" Marci asked, buttoning her shirt.

"No."

"Look, I know you're worried," she said, "but the guy's like a cat. He's got at least nine lives."

"I don't think that matters if Poindexter is after him," Foggy pointed out. "We have to go – _now_." He grabbed some clothes at random and threw them on. Once he was dressed, he and Marci picked up their briefcases and left.

Brett was sitting on the steps of the Hell's Kitchen brownstone that housed the offices of Nelson & Murdock, along with Page Investigations, when Foggy and Marci arrived.

"Karen's here, she's safe," Mahoney informed them.

Foggy let out his breath. Until that moment, he hadn't realized he was holding it. Brett stood up and went inside, followed by Foggy and Marci. Once the door closed behind them, Foggy went straight to Karen and enveloped her in a hug. "You're safe," he assured her, "and we're gonna make sure you stay that way."

Brett looked around, then asked, "Where's Murdock?"

Foggy released Karen from the hug and turned toward the detective. "We don't know. He's not answering any of his phones. And when I called his burner phone, someone else answered."

"You didn't think to mention this before?" Brett demanded. He shook his head. "Jesus."

"I didn't know when I talked to you," Foggy explained.

"Well, what was he doing last night? I mean, was he – " Brett broke off, glancing at Marci, then looking a question at Foggy.

"It's OK," Foggy told him. "She knows. No way I was going to ask her to marry me without telling her."

Karen answered Brett's question. "I don't know what Matt was doing last night. I was out late, over in Queens, interviewing a witness. So I didn't see him."

"You said someone else answered his burner phone. What's that about?"

"He carries a burner phone when he . . . goes out. When I called it, some guy answered. When I asked him where Matt was, he swore at me and hung up."

"Well, we can track the phone," Brett thought out loud, "but it will take some time to get a warrant."

"You don't need one," Foggy told him. "Officially, I'm the owner of the phone. You have my consent to track it."

"Good. Now, has anyone checked Matt's apartment?" Brett asked.

"No, we came straight here," Foggy replied. "I should have thought of that."

"Yes, you should have," Brett told him, exasperated. "So we're doing it now. You come with me. Ladies, you should be safe here until we get back. I've got two uniforms watching the place. I also borrowed two guys from the ESU commander. They're on the roofs of the buildings next door and across the street. Just keep the door locked and the alarm set, and don't let anyone in except us, no matter who they say they are."

Karen nodded. "You got it."

Foggy headed for the front door, but Brett stopped him. "Not that way. We're going out the back." The two men went downstairs to the basement and out the back door. A uniformed officer nodded to them as they passed. They made their way along the narrow passage between buildings that led to the next street. On foot, they quickly covered the five blocks to Matt's building. As they climbed the five flights to the sixth-floor apartment, Foggy's heart was pounding, and not only from the exertions of the climb. He couldn't shake off a mental image of his friend lying injured, or worse, on the hardwood floor. Finally they were standing outside the door marked "6A." He used his key, and they entered the apartment. Somehow Foggy knew right away that Matt wasn't there. The apartment had the same empty feeling it had when he went there after Midland Circle, hoping against hope that Matt would be there. He told himself Matt wasn't dead then, and he wasn't dead now. He didn't want to entertain the possibility that his friend had finally used up all of his lives, or his luck, or whatever it was.

Brett pushed by Foggy. He went down the entry hall and into the apartment's main room. To his left were the closet and trunk where Matt kept his Daredevil gear. The closet stood open. The trunk was open, too, and the tray holding Battlin' Jack's boxing robe was on the floor, to the right of the trunk. The trunk itself was empty. Foggy caught up to Brett. "Damn," he muttered when he saw the empty trunk. Brett checked the bedroom and bathroom. No Matt.

They headed back to the office. Karen's face fell when she saw only two men walk in. "Matt wasn't there?" she asked.

Foggy shook his head. "No." He turned to Brett. "Now what?"

"It's a missing person case."

"No," Karen protested, "you can't – "

Brett interrupted her. "Did I say I was going to open an official case? I'll handle it myself, off the books. But we need to do the things that we'd normally do in a missing person case, like checking the hospitals and . . . the morgue." He looked away when he saw the expression on Karen's face. "And I can do them more easily and faster than you can. I'll also make sure I get reports of any Daredevil sightings, in case he's going after Poindexter himself."

"That's what he's doing, isn't it?" Karen muttered in a low voice. She stood up and walked around her desk, toward Foggy and Brett. "God damn it. I swear to God, if that's what he's doing, I'll kill him myself. Poindexter will have to get in line behind me."

"Now, Karen," Foggy began placatingly.

Karen turned her back to him and walked away. "Don't 'now, Karen' me," she said fiercely, turning to face him. "I'm sick of his 'I have to save everyone by myself' bullshit. Don't try to tell me you aren't sick of it, too."

Foggy held out his hands in defeat. "No way. Not even thinking it."

Brett gave him a knowing glance, then said, "I'll head back to the precinct now and get to work. You should be safe enough here."

"No." Foggy replied firmly. "This is the first or second place Poindexter will look for Karen. We can't stay here."

"Where, then?"

Foggy thought for a moment. "Fogwell's."

Brett considered this. "OK," he said. "But you're not just strollin' out the front door. Give me some time after I get back to the precinct, and I'll text you with a plan to get you there safely."

Foggy nodded his agreement. Forty minutes later, Brett's text landed on his phone. As he and Brett had done earlier, he went downstairs and out the back door, followed by Marci and Karen. When they emerged from the passage onto the sidewalk, they walked quickly to the end of the block, then headed west for two blocks. The van was waiting for them, exactly where Brett said it would be. They climbed in the back. Foggy knocked on the wall behind the driver's seat, and they drove away.

_Matt_

Semi-conscious, Daredevil managed to get to his feet after Dex left him in the alley. He staggered farther into the depths of the alley, where he lost consciousness completely and collapsed, hidden from view behind a row of trash cans.

Matt regained consciousness slowly. The first thing he was aware of was a smell, a horrible smell, something rancid and rotting. He slipped back into unconsciousness. Sometime later, there were sounds, too many sounds, too loud. People talking, babies crying, dogs barking, cats meowing, electronic chirps and beeps, music, horns honking and underneath it all, a pervasive hum. The din gave him a headache. Maybe he already had one, the worst headache he'd ever had in his life. Or so he thought. He couldn't really remember. Funny thing, though, focusing on the pain in his head seemed to block out some of the intrusive sounds. Finally, he opened his eyes. Nothing. Fear knotted his stomach. He raised his hands to his eyes and felt . . . cloth. Something was covering his eyes. A blindfold. He pulled it off and tossed it on the ground. He still saw nothing. He rubbed his eyes and turned his head from side to side. Nothing. He couldn't see anything. His heart raced, and his head pounded. "No," he whispered, terrified and confused. Was he blind, or simply in a dark place?

He concentrated, trying to make sense of what was happening. Suddenly, he was aware of something strange. _Very_ strange. There were objects in front of him, a row of them, cylindrical in shape. By the smell of them, they must be trash cans. He wasn't seeing them. There was no light, no color, no fine details. They were just . . . there. He could sense them occupying the space in front of him and feel their size and shape, solid and real. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew they were there. He reached out tentatively and touched hard plastic, exactly where he knew it would be. His hand was there, too. He knew when he moved it, and not only because it was his own hand, and he was moving it. What the hell?

Using one of the trash cans for leverage, Matt pulled himself to his feet. He took only a few steps before he was overcome by nausea and vertigo. He held on to one of the cans to steady himself as he vomited. There wasn't much in his stomach, but what was there came back up. His head was hurting even worse than before. He hadn't thought that was possible. He sank back down to the ground, his back against a wall, and gave in to his misery. He buried his face in his hands and rubbed his temples. It didn't help the pain, but his mind felt a little clearer.

He tried to take stock of his situation. He didn't know where he was, but he sensed there was a wall in front of him, about 20 feet away, parallel to the one behind him. There was a large oblong shape in front of it – probably a dumpster. So he was in an alley, most likely. The sounds of footsteps and traffic seemed to come from both directions. It must be open at both ends. He couldn't see, but he still wasn't sure if he was blind, or simply in a dark place. But even at night, an alley in the city wouldn't be totally dark. If he could see, he should be able to see _something_. Then he remembered the cloth that had covered his eyes. If he couldn't see, it wasn't a blindfold. Maybe he didn't use his eyes, and the cloth was there for some other reason. That would mean he was blind. He felt another stab of fear. But it would also mean being blind wasn't something new. He was already blind, before he woke up here. If that was the case, he must know how to be blind. The thought was oddly reassuring.

Then something else occurred to him. Maybe his eyes were covered because of the way they looked. Or maybe he didn't have any eyes. He reached up and felt them. His eyes were definitely there. He could feel them moving from side to side. He couldn't feel any scars, but maybe his eyes just looked weird. There was no way for him to know.

He tried, but he couldn't wrap his mind around the whole "vision-without-seeing" thing he was experiencing. Was this something blind people could just do? He didn't think so. If they could, they wouldn't need guide dogs or white canes.

He raised his head. Someone was coming, from his left. He heard footsteps and a heartbeat – _a heartbeat_. The shape was human, not too large, walking toward him. "Hey, mister," a voice said. It was high-pitched and sounded young. A teenage girl, maybe. "You need help?"

"Yes," he croaked.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

_Dex_

Dex leaned back against the headboard in his room in the no-questions-asked hotel in a not-yet-gentrified section of Hell's Kitchen. He couldn't seem to get comfortable. In fact, the whole place made him uneasy. It felt chaotic, disorderly. He craved structure and order. But he couldn't risk going to a classier place, not with the whole NYPD looking for him. The photos of him that had been plastered across TV screens and the Internet were months out of date, but he wasn't going to take any chances. No longer an FBI agent, he'd let his hair grow long, and stubble helped to obscure his facial features. He'd also put on weight, in the form of muscle mass, mostly in his upper body when he was learning to walk again. He pulled out the wallet he'd lifted from a clueless dumbass who looked more or less like him. Studying the ID, he wondered how much longer it was good for. He'd better start looking for another mark. He could use some more cash, too.

He stood up and began to pace, as much as the cramped space allowed. He was beginning to think he had fucked up by going after Daredevil first. He thought it would be easier to get to Karen Page if Daredevil was out of the way. Now he wasn't so sure. It would have been better, he concluded, to go after Karen first, before she even knew he was out. He'd blown his chance to get to her before she could run. Now she'd rabbited, God knows where. He kept tabs on her while he was inside and knew she'd gone back to work with the two lawyers, Nelson and Murdock. But the office she shared with them was closed and dark. He'd also scoped out her apartment, but there was no trace of her there, either. Nelson and Murdock also seemed to have vanished. The only good news was that there was no sign of Daredevil. Maybe he'd hurt the guy worse than he thought.

His agitation increased as he obsessed about the missed opportunity and the fact that Karen was still alive. His failure to finish the job gnawed at him. It made no difference that it was Wilson Fisk who ordered Karen killed in the first place. Dex had failed, and failure was not acceptable. It was _his_ mission now. He stopped his pacing. He needed the release that would come from throwing something or putting a fist through the wall. But he couldn't afford to leave any signs of his presence here. Be patient, he counseled himself. He'd been waiting and planning for months. A few more days wouldn't make any difference. Sooner or later, one of them had to surface. Then he would make his move.

_Karen_

Karen followed Foggy and Marci into Fogwell's. Marci wrinkled her nose and asked, "_This_ is the safe house?"

"So, what, you were expecting the Presidential Hotel?" Foggy asked.

"No, but – "

"This is where we holed up with Ray Nadeem," Foggy explained, "when Fisk and Poindexter were looking for us. They never found out about this place. We should be safe here. And Matt, if he's out there, he'll know to look for us here."

"OK." Marci looked around. "Wait, was that Matt's dad?" she asked, gesturing toward the faded and torn "Crusher Creel vs. Battlin' Jack Murdock" poster on the wall.

"Yes," Foggy replied. "That was the fight Jack didn't throw, that got him murdered."

"Shit," Marci muttered. "I could almost feel sorry for Matt – "

Karen interrupted her. "Don't," she snapped.

"Oh, I don't," Marci assured her. "What I was going to say was, I could _almost_ feel sorry for him, if he wasn't such an asshole sometimes."

"You have no idea," Karen muttered under her breath.

"OK, OK," Foggy interjected. "Can we all agree that Matt can be an asshole, and move on? Can we also agree we need to find him – and Poindexter?" He went over to the table where they had met with Ray Nadeem on the day he was murdered. He pulled out a chair and sat down. Karen and Marci joined him.

Karen sat down and lowered her head, resting it on her folded arms on the table top. But not for long. Suddenly she sat up with a jerk. She felt the blood drain from her face, and a feeling of dread grew in the pit of her stomach.

"Karen! What is it?" Foggy exclaimed. "You're white as a sheet."

"Sister Maggie," she whispered.

"But Matt wouldn't go to her," Foggy protested. "He'd never knowingly put her in danger."

"Not Matt – Poindexter." Karen explained. "He has to know she hid Matt and me in the church – that night." She pushed the memory back into the recesses of her mind. She didn't have time to dwell on the horrors of Poindexter's invasion of the church and Father Lantom's sacrifice.

"Oh, shit," Marci murmured. "The kids at the orphanage . . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"I'll call Brett," Foggy said, then addressed Karen. "You call Maggie."

Karen pulled out her phone and dialed. Her anxiety peaked during the several minutes it took for one of the sisters to locate Maggie and for Maggie to come to the phone. Finally Maggie answered. "Karen?"

"Yes, it's me." Then her words started to spill out of her. "Matt, he's missing, and Poindexter escaped, and he may be coming after you, you're in danger, you need to be somewhere safe – "

She got that far before Maggie interrupted her. "Slow down, take a deep breath. You said Matthew's missing."

Karen took a gasping breath. "Yes. No one's seen him since last night."

"He's not here," Maggie told her.

"No, he wouldn't be, not with Poindexter on the loose. He wouldn't put you in danger. But you're in danger anyway. Poindexter knows you hid Matt and me."

"You're right. He does," Maggie said matter-of-factly.

"We need to get you somewhere safe. Foggy's calling Brett Mahoney, and – "

"No."

"But, Sister – "

"You know Poindexter, Karen. If he comes after me, he'll stop at nothing. If I'm not here, he's capable of killing everyone in this place, including the children, to find out where I am. I'm not letting that happen."

Karen sighed. "You're as bad as Matt."

"Why, thank you," Maggie said primly.

"But you _will _accept police protection for the church and the orphanage, whether you want it or not."

"I will," Maggie conceded. After a moment, she added, "And you'll let me know, won't you, as soon as you have any news of Matthew?"

"I will," Karen assured her, and ended the call. She turned to Foggy with a questioning look.

"Brett's on it," he assured her. "But we still need to look for Poindexter – and Matt."

Karen thought for a moment. "Brett said he was going to check the hospitals. But we know, if Matt's injured, that's the last place he would go – voluntarily, anyway."

"You're right," Foggy agreed. He was silent for a few beats, then added, "You know, I heard Claire – you know, Claire Temple, the nurse – is back in town, working at a free clinic in Harlem."

"But Matt wouldn't go all the way uptown," Karen objected.

"Probably not. But I'm guessing Claire has contacts at other free clinics and places where people can get treated off the books. Maybe she'd be willing to make a few calls."

Karen nodded. "Good. And I'm going to call Ellison. He might hear about sightings of Daredevil or Poindexter that the cops don't know about." She picked up her phone and dialed.

Ellison answered immediately. "Karen! Thank God. Please tell me you're somewhere safe."

"I am," Karen assured him, "at an 'undisclosed location'." She could hear Ellison's sigh of relief through the phone.

"What can I do?" Ellison asked. "Anything – just ask."

"If your people hear about any sightings of Daredevil or Poindexter, we need to know."

"OK." Ellison fell silent, then said, "Poindexter I get, but Daredevil?"

"We think he may be going after Poindexter himself. He could lead us to Poindexter."

"OK, that makes sense. I'll call you when we have something. And you call me if you need anything, anything at all. You got that?"

"Got it. And thanks." Karen ended the call.

Foggy put his phone on speaker to call Claire. "Foggy Nelson," she said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"It's our mutual friend."

She sighed. "Of course it is. What is it now?"

"He's missing. No one's seen or heard from him since yesterday."

Claire scoffed. "He's gone for a day, and you're worried? About the guy who let us all think for_ months _that he was dead?"

"This is different" Foggy asserted. "Poindexter escaped."

"Oh," Claire said. "Murderous psychopath, likes to throw shit?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Son of a bitch," Claire muttered. "OK, I see why you're worried. But what can I do?"

"We think Matt might be going after him."

Claire interrupted, "Of course he is." She sighed.

Foggy continued, "Which means there's a good chance he'll be injured – "

"You think? But I doubt he'd call me."

"Maybe not," Foggy admitted. "But he might go to a free clinic somewhere, or maybe some other place, you know, where he can get patched up, off the books."

"True. And you're thinking I might know about places like that."

"Exactly."

"Well, you're not wrong. I'll make some calls and let you know if I hear anything."

"Thank you." Foggy ended the call.

Karen looked at him. "Now what?"

"Now we wait, I guess."

_Matt_

"Let's get out of here," the voice said. The speaker held out her hand. Matt took it. He groaned softly as he got to his feet with her help.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"You don't know?"

He shook his head, then held on to one of the trash cans for support when his dizziness returned. "No. I can't see anything. I was unconscious, I think, and when I woke up, uh, I couldn't see."

"Wait, what?" she exclaimed. "You can't see? Why aren't you freaking out?"

"I did that already," he said with a tight half-grin. "But I think I was blind before, uh, before . . . whatever happened here." He waved his hand.

"You _think_?" she asked skeptically.

"I can't remember."

"Let me get this straight," she said. "You're blind, and you've lost your memory. Sounds like a bad Lifetime movie to me." She shook her head. "That's seriously fucked up."

"Sorry about that," Matt said contritely. "So what's your name?"

"My clueless parents named me Madison. You can call me Maddie. What's yours? Please tell me you remember your name at least."

"Um." Matt concentrated, searching for the answer. "Maddie" sounded familiar, actually. Finally, he said, doubtfully, "Matty. I think."

"Jesus, you really are fucked up. _I'm_ Maddie."

"No, not 'Maddie'," he said. "'Matty.' You know, like, short for 'Matthew'."

"OK, Matty, let's get you out of here." She grabbed his arm and started to drag him toward the mouth of the alley.

"You're doing it wrong," he told her, jerking his arm from her grasp and taking hold of her arm instead. "This is how you do it."

"Oh. Sorry."

As they walked out of the alley, Matt said, "You never answered my question. Where are we?"

"An alley off 46th Street, in Hell's Kitchen. You know where that is, right?"

Matt thought for a moment. "Yeah. I think so. So where are we going?"

"Me and my crew, we have a place not far from here. You can hang with us until we figure out what to do with you."

Matt didn't like the sound of that. "What to do with me?" he asked. "Don't I get a say in that?"

"Sure, no problem," Maddie answered airily. Matt didn't believe her. No, it was more than that. Somehow, he _knew _she was lying.

When they emerged from the alley and turned onto the sidewalk, Matt could feel the sun on his face. It was daytime, apparently. Then he noticed something else. If he focused on his surroundings, he was able to perceive the unseen world all around him: people in front of him, to both sides, even behind him; dogs on leashes stopping to sniff then moving on; cars parked at the curb and passing in the street; the mass of the buildings. They were all . . . there, just like the trash cans in the alley when he first woke up. As he walked past a lamppost, he reached out and brushed it lightly with his fingertips. It was exactly where he knew it would be. He knew when someone or something moved, too. He marveled at this mysterious ability of his. It was as if he was seeing with his whole body instead of his eyes. If he knew where he was, and where he was going, he wouldn't even need Maddie to guide him. Then an awful thought occurred to him. He hoped to God this wasn't temporary, some aftereffect of a blow to the head or whatever had happened last night. He started to tell Maddie, then thought better of it. No, it would be his secret, until he knew more about what was happening to him, and more about Maddie and her "crew."

They turned the corner onto a street that felt more like a major thoroughfare: more cars, more people, the sound of a subway line running under the street. Probably an avenue. Among the passing voices, he heard a voice that reminded him of someone, someone he knew. Then a memory came to him: a man's voice, filled with laughter, saying "the best damn avocados." There was no visual memory, only the man's voice, the beer on his breath, and the awareness of his presence, occupying the space next to him. It must be someone he'd never seen. More evidence that he was blind before last night. At least his memory was starting to come back. He hoped.

Maddie stopped suddenly in the middle of the second block. Matt could sense her head moving, as if she was looking around, checking their surroundings. Then she led him to a chain link fence. She put his hand on it. There was a gap there. "You hold this open, and I'll go through, then I'll hold it open for you," she instructed him. He followed her instructions, and they were both inside the fence within a minute. Maddie led him to the side of a building and opened a door. They went in and ascended the steps to the third floor.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"A tenement building," she replied. "They're going to tear it down. We're squatting here until they do."

When Maddie opened the door to the third-floor apartment, Matt almost gagged from the stench. Sweaty, unwashed clothes, food going bad (or already there), mold and mildew, and a myriad of other odors he really did _not_ want to identify. He remembered how he was able to filter out sounds earlier, by focusing on the pain in his head. He tried it again. It worked on the smells, too. Good to know.

Breathing through his mouth, he let Maddie guide him into the apartment. He could sense random objects scattered around the room, but no other people. She put his hand on the arm of what he guessed was an old folding beach chair, then sat down herself. "You thirsty?" she asked him.

Matt nodded, noticing for the first time how thirsty he was. He heard the rustle of plastic, then Maddie approached him, holding a bottle of water. He let her place it in his hand, not wanting her to know that he already knew where it was. He accepted it gratefully. After he uncapped the bottle and drank half of its contents, he said, "Thanks. I don't suppose you have any aspirin?"

"Sure do." Maddie crossed to the far corner of the room and rummaged through something, probably a backpack, and returned with a bottle and a box of some sort. She shook two tablets from the bottle and placed them in Matt's hand. "Two aspirin, just what the doctor ordered," she said as she pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

Matt swallowed them with another gulp of water. "Thanks. Again."

"That's a pretty bad bump on your forehead," Maddie observed. "It's gotta hurt."

Matt explored it with his fingers and winced. "Yeah, it does."

"Maybe I can get you some ice for it later," Maddie told him. Then she opened the box that was now sitting on her lap. "You've got a nasty-looking cut on your arm," she said. "You want me to take a look at it?"

"Sure."

"OK, but you need to take off your shirt." When Matt did so, she gasped and said, "Holy shit!"

Matt had no idea what had caused this reaction. He decided to play it for laughs. "You know, I don't know what I look like. That good, huh?"

"Shit, man, you're covered with scars. You didn't know?"

Matt ran his hands over his bare torso. She was right. "No," he replied.

"So I guess you have no idea how you got them, either."

"No clue," he agreed.

Maddie didn't pursue the subject. Instead she got to work on the wound on Matt's arm, cleaning and bandaging it professionally, or so it seemed to him. "You're good at this," he commented.

"I learned from my mom. She was a nurse."

"Was?"

"She died. Cancer."

"I'm sorry." Matt hesitated, then asked, "No other family?"

"Only my stepdad." She fell silent briefly, then added, "When my mom died, he expected me to, uh, take her place."

"Shit," Matt muttered. "That sucks."

"Yeah," she said, "but I didn't, if you know what I mean. I got the hell outta there."

Of course she did. Matt's heart sank. He now had a pretty good idea who Maddie and her "crew" were: homeless kids, runaways or abandoned by families who no longer wanted them. Just then, he heard sounds in the stairwell. "Someone's coming," he said. Their voices were high-pitched and excited, their footsteps light. He could hear four heartbeats. Within a few seconds, they were walking into the apartment. They all stopped short, a few steps inside the door, apparently having noticed Matt.

"Who the fuck is this?" a male voice demanded. It was a young voice, probably that of a teenager, trying to sound older than he was.

Matt stood up and extended his hand in the direction of the voice. "Hey, man, I'm Matt."

"I wasn't asking you, motherfucker."

Maddie spoke up. "Like he said, his name's Matt. I found him in the alley off 46th. He needed help, so I brought him here."

"Jesus, Maddie, how many times do I have to tell you?" the teenager asked. "You can't keep bringing strays here. It's not safe. No one can know we're here."

"But, Ryan – " Maddie began.

"Zip it." The teenager – Ryan, apparently – cut her off.

"No," Maddie said stubbornly, "I'm not gonna zip it. Apparently you haven't noticed, _genius_, but Matt's blind. He can't tell anyone who we are or where we are."

Matt had been listening to the exchange between Maddie and Ryan with carefully concealed amusement. He was pretty sure who was going to win this argument. Predictably, Ryan took a couple of steps toward him and waved a hand in front of his face. Matt sensed the movement of Ryan's hand but was careful not to follow it with his eyes. It wasn't that difficult. Apparently it had been a while since he'd followed anything with his eyes. Then Ryan held up three fingers and asked, "How many fingers?" Matt shrugged in response.

Ryan turned away from Matt and gestured to Maddie. "C'mon," he said as he walked toward a door that led to an adjoining room.

Matt felt behind him for the beach chair and sat down. The three other members of the crew – two girls and a boy, he thought – were still standing near the doorway, where they had stopped. He could tell they were fidgeting, shifting their weight from foot to foot. He sensed they were uncomfortable with the presence of an adult stranger, and a blind one at that. Get over it, he thought irritably. I'm blind. Deal with it. Then he reminded himself they were kids. He was (supposedly) the adult here. "Hey," he said, "I'm Matt," trying to look non-threatening – whatever that looked like.

The boy responded first. "Justin."

Then one of the girls spoke. "I'm Lisa. Hi." Her voice was soft, with a trace of an accent. Southern, maybe?

Finally, the other girl introduced herself, too. "Hi, I'm Krissie."

"Nice to meet you," Matt replied, before turning his attention to Ryan and Maddie's conversation in the other room.

"I'm the leader of this crew. We all agreed," Ryan was saying.

"A leader, not a dictator," Maddie retorted. "You know there's a difference, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ryan responded grumpily. "But, you can't do shit on your own that affects all of us, like picking up some guy on the street and bringing him here."

"It wasn't like that."

"Whatever. But I don't care if he's your new BFF, Matt can't stay here."

"He's _not_ my new BFF. He's just a guy who needs my help."

"So what are you now," Ryan demanded, "the fucking Red Cross?"

"He's a blind guy with a concussion," Maddie replied firmly. "I'm not throwing him out on the street, not until he's better."

"OK, OK, he can stay – temporarily. But he's gotta contribute. What can he do?"

"Um . . . ."

Both teenagers were silent for a moment. Then Ryan said, "Lifting wallets is out, since he can't see. Panhandling, maybe. But how does he spot the marks?" He was silent again, then continued, "I got an idea. You don't have to see to give someone head. Some of the douchebags would get off on the idea of a blind guy doing them. I bet they'd even pay extra."

"You think Matt would be OK with that?" Maddie asked.

"Fuck him. If he wants to stay, he has to earn, like the rest of us."

"Don't say anything for now, OK? Just let him stay tonight. If he's better in the morning, he may want to leave anyway."

"All right," Ryan agreed grudgingly.

Matt's heart sank as he listened to Maddie and Ryan. But not for himself. He now knew how the crew survived: pickpocketing, panhandling, and prostitution. He wasn't surprised, only sad for them. He would leave in the morning, he decided. But he would come back when he recovered. He wasn't going to abandon them.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. As the five teenagers became accustomed to Matt's presence, he had to field questions about his blindness. He tried to give them answers, as much as he could remember. With the help of more aspirin and some food, his headache was starting to fade, and the mental fog was lifting. His memory was even starting to come back, but only in bits and pieces. There was the voice of an older man, harsh and gravelly, telling him, "You're a warrior, Matty." The voice conjured up the odors of sweat and blood, and a memory of nights spent in pain. Then there was a woman's voice, with an exotic accent he couldn't place, saying, "This is what living feels like." The memory filled him with a sense of absence and loss. He heard again the voice of the man who had laughed about avocados, but this time his voice sounded thick and choked with emotion as he said, "I only ever needed my friend." Matt thought he might have been close to tears himself when the man – his friend – said that. None of these people had faces. It wasn't that he didn't remember their faces. He had never seen them.

Late that afternoon, Lisa was sitting next him, peeling an orange as she chattered to Krissie, sitting across from them. The fresh, sharp aroma of the orange triggered a memory of a fragrance: lavender with an undertone of citrus. It brought with it the memory of a woman's voice, fierce and shaking with emotion, saying, "I was never gonna leave you up there, and I'm not leaving you now." Once again, there was nothing visual about the memory, only the woman's voice, her scent, her long hair brushing against his face, and the softness of her skin under his fingertips. And there was something else: a feeling. He couldn't find the words for it, but he knew she was important to him. He wondered if she was from his past or his present, but his injured brain wouldn't yield up the answer.

He also listened to the teenagers who had banded together to help each other in their struggle to survive. Little by little, they revealed their own stories. They were depressingly similar to those he'd heard before from young girls and boys living on the streets of Hell's Kitchen. Ryan came home from school one day and found his whole family had cleared out, leaving him behind. Justin and Lisa had left their homes because of parental addictions – Justin's father's alcoholism and Lisa's mother's opioid addiction. Krissie left home to escape her mother's constant verbal and physical abuse. Were they any better off now, he wondered, living in a squalid apartment, selling themselves and stealing to survive? He didn't have an answer.

When evening came, Justin, Lisa, and Krissie left the apartment to "work." Matt now knew what that meant: they were joining the ranks of the prostitutes, male and female, who did business on the streets of Hell's Kitchen. There was no shortage of customers, especially for teenagers like them. As Matt heard them leaving, anger welled up in him – anger at a society that looked the other way when children were selling themselves on the streets, and anger at himself, for not stopping them.

A couple of hours after Justin, Lisa, and Krissie left, Matt heard a sound from outside the building. He sat up straight and cocked his head. A block away, a girl was screaming, "No! Stop!" Then she screamed in pain. Lisa. Without stopping to think about what he was doing, he jumped up and sprinted for the door. Ryan and Maddie followed him, yelling, as he pounded down the stairs. Ignoring them, he ran out of the alley, squeezed through the gap in the fence, and ran toward the girl's cries. When he reached her, she was no longer yelling, but whimpering in pain. He pulled a man off her and put him down on the pavement with a swift flurry of punches. "Stay down," he growled. Ryan and Maddie came up behind him, panting. Matt kneeled down next to Lisa and took her hand. "It's OK," he said, "we're here." Ryan shouldered him aside and took Lisa in his arms, stroking her hair. She began to sob. When her sobs subsided, they walked slowly back to the tenement. As he walked with the three teenagers, Matt berated himself for letting them see what he could do. But what was he supposed to do? Lisa was in trouble. He gave a mental shrug. There was nothing he could do about it now. He couldn't unring that bell.

Once they arrived at the apartment, Ryan rounded on Matt. "What the fuck was that, man?" he demanded. Matt shrugged, holding his hands out, palms up. "You said you were blind!"

"I am."

"Get real. No way a blind man can do what I just saw you do."

"Obviously there is a way," Matt said dryly. "Because I did."

"So explain it," Ryan challenged him.

Matt racked his brains, searching in vain for the answer. Finally he said, "I can't. I don't remember."

"Very convenient," Ryan sneered.

Maddie looked up from tending to Krissie's injuries. "Do you have superpowers? Are you one of those, you know, superheroes?"

Matt chuckled. "I'm not a hero. My friends tell me that, all the time." Wait a minute. His friends? He had friends? Who were they? He searched his memory but came up empty.

Ryan picked up a can of soda and threw it at Matt, who caught it reflexively. "Now tell me you're blind," Ryan said triumphantly.

"I'm blind," Matt insisted.

"Fuck you," Ryan said. "I know what you are. You're a fucking cop, something like that, undercover, pretending to be blind."

Matt sighed. "I'm not a cop. And I'm not pretending to be blind. But I don't know how to prove it to you."

"I do," Maddie said. "I learned it from my mom." She rummaged around in her backpack and found a flashlight. Matt heard a click as she turned it on. Then she apparently shined the light in his eyes. "His eyes don't react to light," she announced. "He really is blind."

"If you really are blind, and you're not a cop, what are you?" Ryan demanded.

"I don't know," Matt said. "I'm just a guy." But Ryan's insistence that he was a cop triggered something in his returning memory. He knew he wasn't a cop, but he thought maybe he had something to do with the law. He would remember eventually, he assured himself.

"You know, man," Ryan said, "I don't care who or what you are. Maybe you aren't a cop, but you're definitely some kinda weirdo. I want you gone. _Now_."

"Not so fast," Maddie said. "You saw what he can do. Who cares if he's a weirdo if he can do that shit? We need someone like him."

"I agree." A soft voice came from across the room. Lisa. "I want him to stay. I feel safe with him here."

Matt sensed heads nodding as the other kids said, "Yeah" and "Me, too."

"OK," Ryan said grudgingly. "But if it turns to shit, it's on all of you."

* * *

_Author's Note:_

This is how I imagine what is going on with Matt and his memory and his senses. As I understand it, a concussion may affect only some parts of the brain and not others. In this story, Matt has suffered a concussion. It has affected his memory, but not the parts of his brain involved with his heightened senses and how he uses them. So he still has his abilities, but he doesn't remember that he has them. So he's discovering them, as if for the first time. I'm sure a neurologist, or anyone with more medical knowledge than I have, could poke holes in this scenario. But this story is taking place in a universe where someone like Matt Murdock can exist.

The concept of seeing with the whole body comes from the blind author John Hull. I recommend his book about his experience of blindness, _Touching the Rock_ (reissued a few years ago under the title _Notes on Blindness_), if you're interested in the subject.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

_Dex_

Two days passed. Dex moved to another seedy Hell's Kitchen hotel, after pulling off another mugging. The mark's ID and cash should last for another couple of days. He'd hoped the mugging might attract Daredevil, but he didn't show. The morning after their encounter, Dex had gone back to the alley, but there was no sign of Daredevil, other than his discarded mask. Dex picked it up and took it with him, tossing it into a random trash can on his way back to his hotel.

There was no sign of Karen Page or the lawyers she worked with. He'd gone back to the law office, but it was still closed and dark. No one came or went while he watched from across the street. He needed to find someone to lead him to Karen. He briefly considered going after the nun who had hidden Karen and Daredevil in the church basement, but decided against it. Karen wouldn't risk hiding there again. She knew that he knew she'd hidden there before. And after what happened at the church, he doubted the nun knew where Karen was hiding, this time.

Being cooped up in a crummy hotel room didn't help. The discipline of rehabilitation and physical therapy had stilled the turmoil in his head and kept his urges in check for months. Without that structure, he felt himself starting to unravel. His mind raced. Maybe a run would help him find some clarity. He put on his shoes and headed to Clinton Park. It wasn't the East River, but it would do. An hour later, his run finished, he walked back to the hotel, cooling down. Suddenly it came to him. He knew how to get to Karen: the cop who had taken her from him at the church. He was the one she'd go to if she needed help again. Detective Sergeant Brett Mahoney. Dex would never forget the scorn in Mahoney's voice when the cop looked down on him, lying paralyzed on the floor of Fisk's penthouse, and said, "He isn't the real Daredevil." Mahoney would lead him to Karen. And getting his revenge on Mahoney would make it even more satisfying.

_Karen_

On the morning of their second day at Fogwell's, Foggy emerged from the locker room, where he and Marci had been sleeping. Karen was already awake, sitting at the table, her head in her hands. He studied her for a moment, frowning, then said, "Good morning. You look like shit."

"Good morning to you, too," she replied tartly.

"Trouble sleeping?"

"You could say that."

Foggy walked past her and sat on the edge of the ring. "This looks like something more than the usual 'I can't sleep 'cause I'm worried about Matt' kind of thing," he said. Karen nodded. "Tell me," Foggy urged her.

Karen took a deep breath, then said, "I don't think Matt ever told you this. Hell, he didn't exactly tell me, either. I had to drag it out of him."

"Go on," Foggy prompted.

"After Midland Circle, he was injured, I mean, seriously injured – "

"Well, yeah. I mean, a building fell on him."

Karen ignored him. "What you don't know, I think, is that he lost his abilities, for a while. He lost the hearing in one ear, and his other senses weren't working normally." Foggy started to say something, but she silenced him with a glance. "Normally for him, that is. He didn't know if they were ever coming back."

"Damn," Foggy swore under his breath. "You're right, I didn't know."

"I think it scared him, a lot. Not that he'd ever admit it. And there was something else. When he was talking about it, he seemed almost . . . ashamed of losing his abilities. It was like he felt he was . . . diminished or . . . broken, maybe, without them. I think that was one of the reasons he stayed away. He didn't want us to see him like that."

"But that makes no sense," Foggy objected. "I was his friend for years before I knew about his abilities. So were you. Why would he believe we'd think any less of him?"

"I know it isn't logical," Karen agreed, "but I think that's how he felt."

"So, what, you think he's injured and is staying away deliberately?"

Karen shook her head. "Not necessarily. But if he lost his abilities before when he was injured, it could happen again. I keep thinking of him out there, injured and alone, maybe without his abilities. What if Poindexter finds him? What if he already has? That's why I couldn't sleep."

"Shit," Foggy muttered. They exchanged worried looks.

A few minutes later, Marci joined them, rubbing her eyes as she walked out of the locker room. Foggy rose to meet her and gave her a hug. "Time for a breakfast run," she announced. They had been subsisting on takeout since arriving at Fogwell's. Marci had decided she was the one to go out for food, arguing she was the least likely to be recognized by Poindexter. Foggy didn't like it, but he was forced to agree. Marci twisted her hair into a knot on the top of her head and covered it with a baseball cap, then put on a pair of large sunglasses she'd found in the locker room. Karen thought she looked like a wanna-be bank robber but didn't say anything.

When Marci returned with breakfast, Karen was too anxious to eat more than a few bites. They'd been there more than a day, and there was no news about Matt or Poindexter. The three of them sat at the table, on the uncomfortable folding chairs, and tried to get some work done. They might be hiding out, but there were still deadlines to meet, clients who needed to hear from them, and appointments that had to be rescheduled. At least Foggy and Matt didn't have any court appearances in the next couple of days. They should be OK as long as there were no emergencies. Marci, however, was having a hard time dealing with Jeri Hogarth, who was not happy about losing her billable hours. Foggy finally grabbed the phone out of Marci's hand and reminded Hogarth just why they were holed up in a safe house. That finally convinced Hogarth that losing a few billable hours was better than the alternative.

Karen was staring at the screen of her laptop, trying to concentrate on writing a report, when her phone finally rang. Ellison. Fear stabbed at her stomach as she answered the call. "Yes?" she said breathlessly. But Ellison had no news for her. She thanked him and hung up, close to tears. Claire called a little later, but she, too, had nothing to report.

The day wore on. Marci went out again and brought them lunch, from a different eatery. They had agreed she would not go to the same place twice. None of them felt like eating much. Finally, in mid-afternoon, Brett called. Foggy put his phone on speaker.

"No one named Matt Murdock has turned up at the morgue," he reported, "and no 'John Doe' matching his description, either."

The knot in Karen's stomach loosened, but only a little.

"There's no record of him or anyone fitting his description at any hospital in Manhattan," he continued. "I'm still working on the hospitals in the other boroughs. And we haven't found Poindexter, either."

"Damn," Foggy swore. "What about the burner phone? Were you able to track it?"

"Now that's where it gets interesting," Brett replied. "I found it in a trash can in the 50th Street subway station. Its minutes were all used up. But when I looked at where it had been, I noticed it was in one place for several hours on the night Matt went missing."

"Where?" Karen asked anxiously.

"In the vicinity of 46th Street, where there was a report of an unusual mugging around the same time. According to the victims, a young couple, the mugger didn't take anything. He put a knife to the woman's throat and ordered her to scream. Which she did. He let them go when another man showed up. This other man was dressed in black and wore a mask. Sound familiar?"

"Yep," Foggy said.

"One other interesting thing. As the victims were running away, the man thought he saw the mugger throw something at the man in black."

"Poindexter," Foggy said grimly.

"Looks like it," Brett agreed.

"God damn it," Karen swore, anger welling up and replacing her anxiety for the moment. "He's going after Poindexter, isn't he?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Brett told her. "Like I said, the mugging was not your ordinary mugging. It looks to me like it could be a set-up. If it was Poindexter, maybe he was setting a trap for Daredevil."

"Could be," Foggy agreed. "But why go after Matt, I mean, Daredevil? Karen's the one he's after."

"He wanted to get Daredevil out of the way first," Karen said.

"You're probably right," Brett agreed. "There was another interesting report last night. A john was abusing a teenage hooker near 44th and 10th. A man in black, dark hair, no mask, showed up and beat the crap out of him. Then he left the scene with the hooker and two other teenagers, a boy and a girl. We think they're part of a crew of teenagers, probably runaways, who've been hanging out in the area for the last couple of weeks, but we haven't been able to locate them."

"What the hell?" Karen asked.

Foggy shook his head. "That makes no sense. If it's Matt, why would he be hanging out with a bunch of runaways?"

"Trying to save them, of course," Karen replied sarcastically. "This is Matt we're talking about."

"Maybe so." Foggy frowned. "But if that's the case, why hasn't he contacted us? He has to know Poindexter is out, right?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Brett said. "I'll be in touch. Stay safe."

"Thanks," Foggy said, and ended the call. Then he looked at Karen and Marci, across from him at the table. "You know, this isn't just Matt being Matt."

"No, it's not," Karen agreed.

"I don't know Matt as well as you two," Marci said. "But if he knew Poindexter was out, the first thing he'd do was make sure you're safe. Something's preventing him from doing that."

"You're right. But what?" Karen asked.

"Maybe he's being held against his will by a bunch of teenage hookers," Foggy suggested.

"Get serious," Karen snapped. "He's out there, and Poindexter's out there, and no one knows anything."

Foggy stood up and took a step toward the door. "I'm going to look for him."

Moving in unison, Karen and Marci blocked his path. "No, you're not, Foggy Bear," Marci said, in the "don't mess with me" voice she usually reserved for opposing counsel. "That's what Poindexter wants. He's waiting for one of us to do something stupid. Then he'll have us – all of us."

"Not stupid," Foggy protested weakly. He turned around and sank onto a chair, looking defeated. "But there's something we're all missing."

"What is it?" Karen asked.

"I have no idea."

_Matt_

When morning came, Matt reconsidered his decision to leave, in light of the attack on Lisa the night before. He would stay, for the time being. These kids needed his protection. And he needed to be their protector. If nothing else, it gave him an identity, until his memories returned. He was relieved to discover that he still had his remarkable ability to perceive the world without seeing it. He was beginning to think it wasn't the result of whatever happened in the alley, but something from before. It was even starting to feel normal, if that was possible.

After breakfast, bought with some of last night's earnings and brought in by Jason and Krissie, Maddie invited Matt to join her when she went to work. Curious about what her "work" was, Matt agreed. As they walked along the alley toward the fence, Maddie handed him an oblong object. Matt ran his hands over it: a folded cane. "I picked this up when I was out yesterday afternoon," Maddie told him. "I thought you might need it, but now I'm not so sure."

"Thanks," Matt replied, hoping she hadn't stolen it from a blind person who _did_ need it.

Matt soon discovered what Maddie's work was: she had a talent for pickpocketing. In the space of a half hour, she relieved two unsuspecting pedestrians of their wallets. Matt discovered something about himself, too. He knew precisely where the marks were carrying their wallets. As they strolled along the pavement, he commented, "You're pretty good at this."

"Thanks." Maddie paused for a moment, then decided to say something. "I was thinking, you know, maybe we could team up. You could distract them while I lift their wallets."

Matt considered this. He wasn't happy with the idea of being a juvenile pickpocket's helper, but he had a feeling he didn't always follow the letter of the law himself. Who was he to judge? He sighed and said, "I have a better idea. I can tell you where the marks' wallets are."

"You can? For real?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

Matt shrugged. "No idea."

"Let's try it." With Matt acting as her spotter, Maddie successfully lifted three more wallets in the next hour. Then she decided it was time for a break. She led Matt into an alley and sat down on a discarded couch. Matt wrinkled his nose at its odor of dust and cigarette smoke but sat down beside her. She pulled out a couple of energy bars and offered one to Matt. It smelled and tasted old and stale, but he ate it anyway. It was food.

When they finished eating, Maddie turned to him and asked, "So how'd you do it?"

Matt knew what she was referring to but asked anyway. "Do what?"

"What you did last night."

"Honestly, I don't know. Maybe when I get my memory back . . . ." His voice trailed off.

"Well, my money's still on superpowers," Maddie declared.

Matt gave an embarrassed laugh. "I don't think so. What kind of superhero gets beat up in an alley and loses his memory?" He heard Maddie take a breath to respond, but before she could speak, he said quickly, "Don't answer that."

She laughed, then answered anyway. "I dunno. Maybe one who doesn't care if he gets hurt."

Matt had no response to this. He didn't know exactly why, but Maddie's observation felt uncomfortably close to the truth. He decided to change the subject.

"So, Ryan, he's the leader of your crew, right?"

Maddie nodded. "Yeah."

"What does he do? To bring in money, I mean."

"Panhandles. He's really good at it, too."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. If you could see him, you'd understand," Maddie replied. "People just wanna help him."

"I'll take your word for it."

They sat quietly for a few minutes, before Maddie spoke up. "Is your memory coming back at all?" she asked.

"A little. Bits and pieces."

"Last night, you mentioned your friends, the ones who said you weren't a hero."

"Yeah. I remember."

"You remember them?"

"No. I remember saying it. I'm starting to remember them, too, a little. I think." He rubbed his forehead. His headache was coming back.

"But that's gotta be good, right? I mean, you have friends. They've gotta be looking for you."

"Yeah. Maybe. But it's a big city." Matt pondered this. It was a good thing, wasn't it, if he had friends who were looking for him? But the idea that people were looking for him didn't feel like a good thing. It felt like a threat. Someone was looking for him, all right, and not in a good way. He was being _hunted_. And he had no idea who was hunting him, or why. Suddenly he felt exposed, despite the partial concealment provided by the alley. "Can we go back to the apartment now?" he asked.

Maddie turned toward him, apparently scrutinizing him. "Sure. You look tired. You should rest."

When they got back to the apartment, Matt slept for a couple of hours, then spent the rest of the afternoon meditating. Slowly, too slowly, his memory was returning. One of the things he remembered was that meditation helped him to heal. As he meditated, more memories broke through. The strongest and most numerous were the memories of the long-haired woman and the man who, apparently, loved avocados. He still couldn't quite recall their names, but he was now certain they were his friends. Somewhere, out there in the city, there were people he cared about, people who cared about him. The man was like a brother, the woman, something more, maybe. Yet there was also a troubling undercurrent to these memories of his friends, a feeling that he'd let them down or hurt them in some way. He felt he didn't deserve them. He tried to remember more, but the memories eluded him, hidden just below the surface of his mind.

There were other memories, too. A man's voice, gruff yet gentle, telling him to "get up, Matty." It brought with it the smells of sweat, blood, and liniment, and made him feel very young. With this memory, unlike all the others, something visual – perhaps a man's face – flashed across his mind, vanishing as swiftly as it appeared. He wondered if this meant there was a time when he could see. Later, the memory of another man's voice came to him, declaring that "Not everyone deserves a happy ending." Matt didn't know who the speaker was, but he sensed a huge man, looming over him. Whoever he was, the man was dangerous.

When evening came, Lisa, Krissie and Justin left the apartment to go to "work." Matt gritted his teeth as he heard them leave. Then he ascended to the roof to keep watch over them. He stood in a corner of the roof, immersed in the sounds and smells of the city. A slight breeze ruffled his hair. It was all so familiar. Somehow he knew he had done this before, many times. While his senses tracked the three teenagers, another part of his mind turned inward, looking for a solution to the riddle that was himself. What did he know? He was a fighter, for one thing. His scars, and his actions last night, proved that. And the old man told him he was a warrior. But he had something to do with the law, too, working within it in some way. He couldn't figure out how those two things fit together. Maybe they _couldn't_ be reconciled.

Hours passed. Nearby church bells told him it was sometime after midnight when he heard a woman's screams. Unthinking, he started running toward her. He was halfway across the roof when he stopped himself. The screams weren't Lisa's or Krissie's or Justin's. His job was to protect _them_. He couldn't abandon his post to help anyone who needed his help. Or could he? As he walked back to his spot at the corner of the roof, he wondered if that was who he was – someone who helped people in trouble. "Who are you?" he whispered. He didn't have an answer. Not yet.

Matt breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the three teenagers returning from their night's work. He crossed the roof to the fire escape and descended to the third floor. The five members of the crew were excitedly counting the money they'd earned. Matt tried to block out their voices. He wasn't OK with this, not by a long shot. There had to be a way to get them off the streets, without getting them sent back to the shitty home lives they'd escaped from. A thought occurred to him: they could go to court and ask to be emancipated. That might work. Briefly, he wondered where the idea had come from. Then he shrugged. He'd figure something out. Soon, he promised himself, before sleep overcame him.

In the morning, Maddie cornered him after breakfast, insisting she needed to check his head and arm. "Nice shade of purple," she commented, gently touching the knot on his forehead. He winced. "You remember yet how you got this?" she asked.

He thought for a moment, but the only thing that came to mind was a confusing swirl of motion. "A . . . fight," he said. "I think."

"Makes sense," she said. "Can you take off your shirt? I need to change the bandage on your arm." He pulled the shirt over his head. This time, she didn't comment on his scars. She removed the bandage from his arm and touched the wound gently. "Oh, shit," she said.

"What?"

"It looks like it's infected. It's red and it feels hot."

"Yeah," Matt agreed. "I can tell. Damn."

"Don't worry, I can take you to the free clinic over on 40th."

"No." It felt too exposed, too public.

"Don't be stupid. You need antibiotics, and I'm not gonna rip off a drug store to get 'em for you."

Damn. She was right. "OK," he said reluctantly.

They left the apartment and headed down the alley. After they went through the fence and turned onto the sidewalk, Matt unfolded his cane and took hold of Maddie's arm.

"Why're you doing that?" she asked.

"Doing what?"

"Hanging on to me like that. It's not like you need me to lead you."

"I don't know," Matt confessed. "I think . . . I don't want people knowing about me, you know, what I can do."

"What, you want people to think you're some helpless blind guy?"

"_Not_ helpless," Matt snapped. That ended the conversation until they arrived at the clinic.

They stopped just outside the entrance. "We're here," Maddie said. "This is as far as I go."

"You're not coming in?" Matt asked.

"No, I don't want – "

Matt nodded. She didn't need to say it. He understood. If she went inside, she risked being sent back to her stepfather. He swallowed hard, then said, "Thank you. For everything. I'll come back when I, you know, get my shit together."

"Ha," Maddie snorted derisively. "When pigs fly." She spun and walked away without looking back.

Admitting wryly to himself that she might be right, Matt stepped into the clinic. A man approached him. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, please."

"What's your name?"

"Matthew."

"And your last name?"

"Um . . . ."

Somewhere on Matt's right, a heartbeat sped up. Then a woman spoke. "Wait a minute. I think I know him."


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

_Foggy_

Foggy stared at the screen of his laptop, trying to figure out how much his wrongfully-fired client should demand to settle her case against her sleazy former employer. His phone rang, interrupting his calculations. He didn't recognize the name or number displayed on the screen, but he answered it anyway. "Franklin Nelson."

"You probably won't remember me, Mr. Nelson," a woman's voice said. "My name is Susan Miller. Your firm represented my cousin, Dorothea Thompson, in her workers' comp case last year."

"Yes, I remember," Foggy replied guardedly. "Is she OK?"

"Yes, yes, she's fine, but I'm not calling about Dorothea. It's about your partner, Mr. Murdock."

Foggy's heart pounded. "What about him?"

"I volunteer at the free clinic on 40th Street. He showed up here this morning, looking a little – well, actually, a lot – the worse for wear. And he seems to be having a problem with his memory."

"I'll be right there. Don't let him go anywhere."

"Actually," Ms. Miller explained, "I'm taking him to the ER at Metro-General. We don't have the facilities to evaluate him properly here at the clinic. You can meet us there."

"I'm on my way. And _thank you_." Foggy ended the call.

Karen and Marci were staring at him, wide-eyed. Karen spoke first. "Matt?"

Foggy nodded. "He turned up at the free clinic on 40th. They're taking him to the ER at Metro-General."

Karen stood up and grabbed her handbag. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

"Wait!" Marci exclaimed. "We can't just go rushing out of here. Poindexter is still out there, somewhere."

"But we have to go see Matt, make sure he's OK," Karen protested. "And, besides, Poindexter can't be watching us. He doesn't know about this place."

"As far as we know," Marci pointed out.

"So what are you saying?" Foggy asked.

"I'm not saying we don't go, but we have to be smart about it, Foggy Bear," Marci replied. "We can't simply walk out the front door. Is there some other way out of the building?"

"Hang on," Foggy said, and went out of the gym and into the hallway. When he came back, he said, "There's an areaway in back of the building, with a passage to the next street."

"OK, then," Marci said, standing up. "Let's go."

A half hour later, they walked into the Emergency Department at Metro-General. Insisting he could find Matt more quickly on his own, Foggy left Karen and Marci fuming in the waiting room. It didn't take him long to find Matt in a curtained-off treatment area. He never thought he'd be so relieved to see his friend in a hospital bed, dressed in a hospital gown, with an IV in his arm, looking decidedly unhappy. A short, gray-haired man wearing maroon scrubs was standing at his bedside. The hospital badge clipped to his scrubs identified him as "Grant Morris, M.D., Emergency Medicine."

Matt was the first to notice Foggy's arrival. A tentative smile replaced his scowl, and he started to sit up. When he did so, Morris turned around and saw Foggy. He asked, "Who are you?" at the same time that Foggy said, "Matt," and Matt said, "Foggy."

Morris turned toward Matt and asked, "Do you know this man, Mr. Murdock?'

Matt nodded. "Foggy, uh, Franklin Nelson, my law partner and my friend. Susie, the woman who recognized me at the clinic, told me."

"But do you remember him?" Morris asked.

"Yes, I remember him."

Foggy extended his hand, offering his business card. "I also have Matt's medical power of attorney," he said. Morris took the card and glanced at it, then put it in his pocket.

"Avocados," Matt said.

Foggy chuckled, as Morris looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face. "It's an inside joke," Foggy explained.

"Best damn avocados," Matt said. "It's the first thing I remembered." Shit, Foggy thought. He was actually tearing up. He blinked quickly, several times. Then Matt asked, "Karen?"

"She's safe, she's here at the hospital."

Matt nodded. "Good. Can I see her?"

"Not yet," Morris told him. "You need to rest. I'd like to keep your visitors to a minimum for the time being."

"So, how's he doing?" Foggy asked.

Morris didn't answer him immediately. Instead, he spoke to Matt. "Mr. Murdock?" he asked. Matt nodded and waved his hand as if to say "go ahead." Morris then turned to Foggy and said, "As I've already explained to Mr. Murdock, he has a probable concussion from a blow to the head." He gestured toward the lump on Matt's forehead. "He also has a deep laceration on his upper arm, which has become infected. Fortunately, the infection was discovered early. We're treating it with antibiotics. I've ordered a CT scan of the head as a precaution. Someone will be in soon to take him to Radiology."

"And his memory?" Foggy asked.

"His memory loss is probably temporary. He remembers you, and this Karen he mentioned, so that's a good sign. In most cases, the patient's memory returns completely, with the possible exception of the events around the time of the injury."

Foggy breathed a sigh of relief.

"OK," Morris said, turning toward Matt. "We'll let you rest now." He turned back to Foggy. "May I speak with you outside, Mr. Nelson?"

Wondering what the doctor didn't want to say in front of Matt, Foggy followed Morris out of the treatment area and down the corridor. He decided not to mention that Matt would be able to hear every word.

Keeping his voice down, the physician said, "When Mr. Murdock was brought in, we had to cut off his clothes. When we removed his shirt, I noticed a lot of old injuries and scars, and some newer ones, too. He couldn't – or wouldn't – tell us how he got them. What can you tell me about them?"

"Nothing."

Morris regarded him in disbelief. "Nothing? I thought he was your law partner and your friend. He _is_ a friend, right?"

"Yes, he's my friend," Foggy agreed.

"And you're telling me you don't know how he got cut up like that?"

"What I'm telling you is that, if I know anything about it, and I'm not saying I do, that information is privileged." Foggy knew perfectly well there was no privilege that applied, but he was betting the doctor didn't know that. Explaining Matt's injuries would just lead to questions he couldn't answer.

Morris gave Foggy a sharp look, then asked, "Was it you, Mr. Nelson? Are you the one who injured him?"

"_What?" _Foggy asked, shocked. "God, _no_. Why would you even think that?"

"Think about how it looks. Your friend and law partner, a disabled man, comes in with multiple, unexplained old injuries – "

Foggy didn't let him finish. "'Disabled'?" Foggy scoffed. "I can think of a lot of words to describe Matt Murdock. 'Disabled' isn't one of them. Trust me, he can handle himself."

"Those scars tell a different story," Morris pointed out. "And some of them look like knife wounds, which I'm legally required to report to law enforcement. Surely you know that."

"I do. But you don't have to report them. I will." Foggy pulled out his phone and called Brett Mahoney.

Fifteen minutes later, Brett arrived, followed by Karen and Marci_. "You left them," _he demanded incredulously, "in the waiting room? With Poindexter in the wind?"

"Poindexter never knew about Fogwell's," Foggy protested. "There's no way he could know we're here. Besides, I'd like to see _you _try to tell Karen she couldn't come with us."

"OK, OK," Brett said unhappily. "So now, what, you want me to tell the doctor you're not beating up on Da– , I mean, Matt?"

"Gimme a break," Foggy muttered, then added, "Yeah, something like that."

Brett walked away to find Morris. When he returned a few minutes later, he said, "OK, I squared things with the doc. You are no longer a suspect."

"Thanks, Brett."

After Matt's CT scan, he was moved to a fifth-floor patient room, where he would stay overnight for observation. The neurologist who took over his case said he could have visitors, but only one at a time.

Foggy tapped on the door frame. "OK if I come in?"

Matt waved his hand. "Sure. Now that the doc doesn't suspect you of beating up on me." He grinned.

"Thanks to Brett." Foggy shook his head. "Unbelievable." He pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat down. "How's your memory?"

"Getting there. I still don't remember what happened when I – " He gestured toward his forehead. "But a lot has come back. I think."

"Even . . ." Foggy lowered his voice to a whisper only Matt could hear. "Daredevil?"

"Yeah. That, too."

"Damn. I was kind of hoping you wouldn't remember him."

"Sorry about that," Matt said dryly.

"So is it true you were hanging out with a bunch of teenage hookers the whole time?'

Matt chuckled. "It wasn't like that. Actually, the one who found me in the alley is a pickpocket, a really good one." He smiled sheepishly. "I helped her. I told her where the marks' wallets were."

"Oh, great. Showing off _and_ aiding and abetting a juvenile criminal," Foggy said. "And we all thought you were out there doing your thing, going after Poindexter – " He stopped when he saw the alarmed expression on Matt's face.

"Poindexter?"

Shit. Matt didn't know. "He escaped. We thought you knew."

"No, I didn't. Why didn't you tell me?"

"We thought you knew," Foggy repeated.

Matt sat up and swivelled around to sit on the edge of the bed. _"Goddamnit._ Karen. Where's Karen? I have to – " He started to stand up.

Foggy cut him off. "_Matt. Stop_. I told you before, Karen's safe, she's here in the hospital. Brett Mahoney's with her. And _you_ don't have to do anything except get back in that bed and get better."

"But he's dangerous, a killer. You don't know – "

"Actually, I do," Foggy interrupted angrily. "I was there, at the _Bulletin._ Remember?"

"Oh, right. But he must've been watching you, or Karen. He could have followed you here."

"He didn't. All of us – Karen, Marci, and I – we've been holed up at Fogwell's for the last couple of days. There's no way he could know we were there."

Matt seemed to relax, just a little. He sat back down on the side of the bed. "Can I see her? Karen?" he asked.

"Sure, buddy. Just sit tight, and I'll send her in." Matt swung his legs back onto the bed and lowered his head onto the pillow.

_Matt_

A few minutes later, Matt sat up straight. A woman was approaching his room. Her footsteps, her scent and her heartbeat were familiar. Karen.

The door opened, and she entered the room. As she walked toward him, she said, "Hey, Matt."

"Hey, Karen," he replied with a smile.

"You know me?"

"I do."

"Thank God," she said. "So your memory's really back?"

Matt pressed his lips together. "A lot of it," he said, "but there are still some gaps. The doctors say it should all come back, in time. But, you know, I think there's something you could do to help."

"What's that?"

He held out his hand. "Come here."

She came closer and took his hand. He patted the bed with his other hand, and she sat on the edge, next to him. Then he pulled her toward him, cupped her chin in his hand, and kissed her lightly. If this really is my life, he thought, I could get used to this. Aloud, he said, "You know, I think that helped my memory. Could we try it again?" Obligingly, she leaned in and kissed him. This time, it was more than a mere touching of the lips. He kissed her back, with feeling. When she finally pulled away, he said, "That definitely helped. We need to keep doing this." He grinned.

"You!" she exclaimed with a laugh. He settled back on the pillow, still holding her hand. With her free hand, she caressed his cheek. Then she took a deep breath and said, "I owe you an apology, Matt."

He doubted it. "For what?"

"When we couldn't find you, and you weren't answering your phones, I was _so_ angry. I thought you were doing it again – going off on your own after Poindexter, shutting us out. But you weren't. And then to find out that you were injured, you didn't even know who you were. God, I was such a bitch." She let go of his hand and took a few steps away from the bed.

Matt pulled himself up to a sitting position. "You weren't wrong, Karen. If I hadn't been injured, if I knew Poindexter was out, I probably would've done . . . what you were thinking."

"But you didn't."

"Not this time, maybe. But I can't promise you I won't, next time."

"I know."

"All I want is to keep you safe."

"A little late for that," she muttered. Then she raised her voice and said, firmly. "You can't. Not as long as you keep doing what you do. And I know you're not going to stop."

"You didn't sign up for that."

"Actually, I did. I know who you are and what you do, and I chose to make you a part of my life. I could've turned my back and walked away. I almost did, a couple of times. But I didn't. That was _my_ decision. You need to – "

She stopped talking. Matt was no longer listening to her. He was leaning forward, his head inclined toward the door. "What do you hear?" she asked.

"Someone's coming."

He listened again and heard a creepy sing-song: "Ka-ren."

"Shit, it's Poindexter." He turned toward her and ordered, "Go, hide in the bathroom and barricade the door."

"But, Matt – "

"Do it. _Now_."

He heard Karen dragging a chair across the floor, then the click of the lock on the bathroom door. He disconnected his IV, then stood up. Barefoot and wearing only a flimsy hospital gown, he didn't like his odds in a fight with Poindexter. At least Poindexter didn't have the Daredevil suit this time. He told himself he only had to keep Poindexter occupied, and away from Karen, long enough for help to arrive. Brett Mahoney was nearby; he'd heard him talking to Foggy earlier. Surely Brett would come running when he realized what was happening. He squared his shoulders and prepared himself to fight as he listened to Poindexter's footsteps come closer.

_Dex_

Earlier that day, Dex was watching the 15th Precinct from a stolen SUV, parked down the block. He wasn't particularly worried about the vehicle being spotted. The night before, he'd found a similar SUV in a long-term parking lot at La Guardia and swapped license plates. The ticket on the parked vehicle's dashboard showed it had entered the lot only the day before. Dex figured he had a least a couple of days before the swap was noticed. It was the long-term parking lot, after all.

Around mid-morning, Mahoney emerged from the building and climbed into an unmarked car. Dex waited until he was a half block ahead, then followed. Traffic was heavy enough that he wasn't overly concerned about being noticed. A few minutes later, Mahoney pulled into the ER parking lot at Metro-General. Dex drove past and parked the SUV at a fire hydrant. He didn't expect to need it again. He walked back to the hospital and entered the ER waiting room just in time to see Mahoney leaving with Karen and another blonde woman.

Shit. He needed a way to get into the treatment area without being challenged. It didn't take him long to come up with the answer. He took the elevator to the third floor, where he got lucky. In a side corridor, he found a linen cart with an assortment of scrubs. He grabbed a set, along with a cap and a surgical mask, and ducked into a nearby men's room to change. He then made his way to the nurses' station. Behind it was an empty break room. Someone's lab coat was hanging over the back of the chair. He put it on and left. He found a vacant patient room and ducked inside. There he unclipped the ID badge and turned it around so that the name and photo were facing in. He clipped the badge to the lapel of the coat, positioning it to cover the embroidered name over the pocket.

When he returned to the ER, he entered the treatment area without being questioned. Mahoney was talking to a doctor in the hallway. Karen and the blonde were sitting across from the nurses' station. He was tempted to take out Karen right then, but there were too many people who could get in his way. He didn't care if he killed them, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself before he could get to her. While he was considering his options, the curtain around a patient was pulled aside, and several orderlies appeared, pushing a bed with a patient in it. Nelson, the pissant lawyer who had schemed with Mahoney to hijack Karen when he almost had her at the church, was walking beside the bed. Karen and the blonde stood up and followed him, along with Mahoney. He let them go. After a few minutes, he asked an aide where the patient had been taken, and she told him the patient was going to Radiology, then to the fifth floor. Dex thanked her and headed for the elevator.

Once on the fifth floor, Dex found a vacant room with a view of the elevators. He had to wait more than an hour, but the patient finally arrived. Nelson, Karen, the blonde, and Mahoney were still with him. The two women and the cop took seats in a waiting area, while Nelson followed the patient to a room down the hall. After a while, Nelson emerged from the room and went over to Karen. He heard Nelson say, "He wants to see you." Karen rose and went into the room. This was the chance he'd been waiting for.

Dex waited a few minutes before emerging from the concealment of the vacant room. Whispering, "Ka-ren," he walked down the hall. As he passed Nelson, the blonde, and the cop, he coughed, lifting the mask to cover the cough. When he was sure none of them was looking in his direction, he opened the door to the room he'd seen Karen enter, and he slipped inside. The only person in the room was a dark-haired man in a hospital gown, standing next to the bed. There was something odd about him. He didn't look at Dex when he opened the door. He didn't seem to be looking at anything. Instead, he inclined his head in Dex's direction. Dex realized the man was blind. He must be Murdock, Nelson's law partner. Dex looked at the blind lawyer again. He felt a jolt of recognition. That mannerism – the tilting of the head – was familiar. So was the lower half of his face. Then he noticed the knot on Murdock's forehead, surrounded by a purple bruise, exactly where the brick had struck Daredevil when they fought in the alley. And the bandage on Murdock's upper arm was right where the chunk of concrete had hit Daredevil. It was impossible, but the blind lawyer was Daredevil. His thoughts swirled chaotically. When the noise in his head quieted a little, he recognized the opportunity that had fallen into his lap. He'd just been given a twofer. He could take out both Daredevil and Karen Page at the same time.

Dex smiled and reached into his pocket for the hard rubber ball he'd brought with him. He hurled it at Murdock, who dodged it and pushed the over-the-bed table at him. Dex sidestepped the table. Murdock followed the table and came in close, pummeling Dex with his fists. Dex grabbed Murdock's right arm and twisted it behind his back. Murdock jabbed backward with his left elbow, hitting Dex in the middle of the chest and taking his breath away for a second. That was long enough to allow Murdock to escape his grasp. As Murdock twisted away, Dex picked up a plastic basin that was sitting on the bedside chest and threw it. It hit Murdock on the left shoulder, but Dex hadn't thrown it with enough force to do any real damage. Murdock put his head down, yelled, and charged. He landed an uppercut to Dex's jaw and several punches to his midsection, before Dex counterpunched, landing a succession of hits on Murdock's torso. Dex then grabbed Murdock's forearms, and the two men grappled. Dex pushed Murdock back toward the bed. Suddenly, Murdock's feet slipped out from under him, and he went down hard. He had slipped in a puddle of fluid that had dripped from his disconnected IV. Dex grabbed the IV stand and raised it, preparing to deliver a killing blow.

_Karen_

As soon as Karen locked the bathroom door and jammed the chair up against it, she reached into her handbag and pulled out her gun. She flipped the safety to the "off" position and chambered a round. Her anxiety ratcheted up as she listened to the fight between Matt and Poindexter. Finally, it became unbearable. She pushed the chair out of the way and opened the door a crack. Matt would probably be aware of what she was doing, but she guessed Poindexter would be too obsessed with taking out Matt to notice her. In fact, she was counting on it.

When she looked out through the crack in the door, she was horrified to see Matt lying on the floor next to the bed, while Poindexter, with his back to her, was holding the IV stand, poised to strike. Then he started to turn his head in her direction. Shit. He'd heard the click when she unlocked the door. She didn't hesitate. She fired two rounds in quick succession. Both found their target, hitting Poindexter in the middle of his back. He fell forward, across Matt's body, and lay still. Karen gasped and covered her mouth with one hand. She sank to her knees and let the gun fall to the floor. Then she ran to Matt and knelt next to him, cradling him in her arms. Brett burst into the room, his gun drawn, followed by three hospital security guards.

_Epilogue_

Matt was discharged from the hospital the following day. He had not sustained any serious injuries in the fight with Poindexter in his hospital room. His memory returned almost completely within a few days, although it was a couple of weeks before he regained full recall of his fight with Poindexter in the alley.

Dex was not so fortunate. The two bullets in his back had effectively reversed the experimental surgery he had undergone months before. Further surgery might, or might not, restore enough function to allow him to walk again. Eventually, he would have to stand trial for his escape and the assault on Matt, but for the time being, he was spending his days and nights under guard in the prison ward at Metro-General – and waiting for the right moment to reveal Daredevil's identity.

No charges were filed in the shooting of Poindexter. Karen and Matt both gave statements that minimized Matt's role in the fight and avoided inconvenient questions about his fighting abilities. The DA ruled the shooting was justified, finding Karen had acted to defend Matt, and closed the case.

Matt left the hospital under strict instructions to rest at home for five days. After two days, he blew off the doctor's orders and went looking for Maddie and her crew. At the building where he had stayed with them, demolition had begun, and there was no trace of them. Over the next several weeks, whenever he went out as Daredevil, he scanned the sounds of the Kitchen, hoping to hear Lisa's voice, or Krissie's, or Justin's, emerging from the background noise. He heard many voices, but not theirs. When he walked along the sidewalks during the day, he was alert for any sign of Maddie, plying her trade as an expert pickpocket. If she was still lifting wallets, she wasn't doing it in Hell's Kitchen. Brett had no reports of any sightings of her or the rest of the crew. The information Matt had on the teenagers – first names only, no last names, and no physical descriptions other than his impressions of their ages and sizes – was so skimpy that even Karen couldn't trace them. Finally he had to admit failure. Maddie and her crew were gone.

* * *

_Author's Note: _Since we don't really know the properties of the substance used in Dex's surgery at the end of season 3 (except that it wasn't "Adamantium"), I've decided it didn't make his spine bulletproof. I may be proved wrong if we're fortunate enough to have future seasons. I can live with that.


End file.
